


Loose Feathers

by blitzturtles



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Grooming, M/M, Wing Grooming, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:58:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blitzturtles/pseuds/blitzturtles
Summary: The moment he steps foot into the shop, Crowley knows there’s something wrong. He doesn’t know what, but it strikes him like a hand across the face. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and there’s a familiar pressure that starts at his cuticles and expands outward.





	Loose Feathers

The moment he steps foot into the shop, Crowley knows there’s something wrong. He doesn’t know _what_ , but it strikes him like a hand across the face. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and there’s a familiar pressure that starts at his cuticles and expands outward.

It isn’t only that something feels off. The bookshop actually looks _wrong_ in a way that he can’t fully wrap his head around. There’s obvious signs of dishevelment with books and various decorations out of place. Crowley can’t quite decide if anything’s missing or not, but he’s not exactly putting that much thought into it. They can broach that later. Together. When Crowley knows that his angel is safe.

He continues down an aisle and rounds a corner with fully extended claws held rigidly at his sides. There’s an entire row of emptiness that greets him and churns his stomach. They must have been after something specific, and Someone only knew that Aziraphale would be idiotic enough to get himself discorporated over a few, not-nearly-priceless-enough books. 

Except they aren’t just any books. It’s a small section out of Aziraphale’s Wilde collection. None that are irreplaceable, but the angel is so damn sentimental that he may have put up a fight anyways. 

What’s worse than that particular realization is the single, brilliant white feather on the ground, looking exactly the sort of damaged that comes as a result of a fight. There isn’t blood, but that does little to sooth Crowley’s spiking panic. If Aziraphale had been fighting with his wings out… He tries to push the thought to the side for now. He needs to focus. 

The air around him reeks of some kind of distress that Crowley can’t place. His own only makes it worse to the point of it being downright nauseating, but he tries to identify something else. Adrenaline, perhaps. He can’t be sure. There’s still that lingering _something_ that overlays and distorts, blurring the details until Crowley can’t find anything of use.

Go- Sata- _Someone_ , he could use a tire iron right about now. He doesn’t think claws and fangs are going to cut it. Not until he rounds the next corner and freezes dead in his tracks. His eyes widen underneath his sunglasses, and, “Angel?” tumbles out before he can stop himself.

To Aziraphale’s credit, he manages to look incredibly sheepish, though it isn’t for the worry he’s caused. It’s for the position he’s been caught in. Huddled up in a corner with a small wall of books and fabric built up around him. His own eyes are equally wide, and his face is dusted with -- what Crowley would have usually called a fantastic -- shade of pink. His wings _are_ out, though they’re hugging around his body tightly despite the obvious discomfort that it causes. The _something_ is more obvious to him now that he has the pieces to put together. An angel’s fluctuating power, with spikes and dramatic dips, is incredibly distorting.

They both stare at one another for a long while with Aziraphale looking exactly as if he’s trying to miracle himself out of existence.

“You’re-”

“Yes!” Aziraphale’s voice is pitched higher than usual as he cuts Crowley off abruptly.

“Oh,” Crowley says with all the intelligence of your average snake rather than the wily serpent that he actually is.

Aziraphale starts to say, “If you could be so kind as to-” at the same time as Crowley says, “I could help you with-”, and they both stop short. 

Something tells Crowley that Aziraphale meant to ask him to leave. Primarily out of embarrassment, no doubt. His wings are an absolute _state_. There are feathers pointing in every single direction imaginable, with a few going for the unimaginable. It looks downright painful in certain areas, and there are already several on the ground, detached entirely. Amongst the small hoard that Aziraphale has decided to make into his brick and mortar for his little wall, Crowley spots more than a few pieces of his own clothes. It’s endearing, really, and it makes up for the missing Wilde that he spots.

“Would you?” Aziraphale finally asks after the silence has dragged on long enough. It’s clear that he feels overwhelmed and possibly overstimulated. Crowley knows the struggle of trying to get through a molt on his own. The first time after his Fall had been true Hell. 

“Turn around,” Crowley says in lieu of an actual answer. He closes the distance between them and moves to sit on a pile of clothes -- they look more comfortable than the books after all, and he’s less likely to get chewed out for it.

Aziraphale’s cheeks darken, but he does as he’s told without a word of protest.

Crowley can’t help the small smile that forms, but he shoves down the mixture of emotions that bubble up to focus on the task at hand. It’s likely to take awhile, so he decides to start with the obvious: at the base, which draws a soft gasp out of Aziraphale. Crowley doesn’t tease him for it, tempting as it might be. He doesn’t want to ruin this. He still regularly struggles to deal with the fact that Aziraphale so freely turns his winged back to him. To do it while molting, when an angel is arguably at their weakest, is incomprehensible. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs well over an hour into their grooming session. 

“Anytime, angel,” Crowley answers without pausing.


End file.
